


Not his Strong Suit

by Miri1984



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Grief, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25005550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miri1984/pseuds/Miri1984
Summary: Zolf is bad at comforting people, but perhaps that doesn't matter so much to Oscar.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 17
Kudos: 92





	Not his Strong Suit

It was two weeks since the incident, as Oscar referred to it in his mind. Two weeks since the unpleasantness. The  _ idiocy  _ he’d perpetrated on himself.

Two weeks since he’d put the entire team, the entire  _ mission  _ in jeopardy because of his own stupid feelings. 

Two weeks since he’d lost…

No. Since his  _ failure. _

He knew he was stalking around the inn like a cloud of black smoke but he couldn’t bring himself to pretend to be alright. It didn’t  _ matter  _ any way. No one in the world could benefit from the person he used to be, not any more. The last tie he had with that person, the Oscar Wilde he had been in London, in Paris, even in Prague, was dead now.

By his own hand.

He slams a fist into the wall of the inn, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, breath heaving.

When he gathers himself enough to look up he sees Zolf, standing at the end of the corridor. The dwarf is looking at him, eyes wide and surprised at his outburst.

Great. Perfect. Brilliant. 

“You right, Wilde?” Zolf says.

“I’m  _ fine,”  _ he hisses, then turns on his heel, stalking back to the reading room.

He can’t even control himself around the rest of the team. He’s utterly useless. He should just…

“Oi, uh…” Zolf has followed him. Of course he has. “I’m well… you know I’m not exactly…”

Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers, shuts his eyes, tries to find a modicum of calm. “What is it, Zolf?” he manages.

“You’re… you’re hurtin’ right now.”

Oscar lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Your powers of observation never fail to astonish.”

“I mean, all I wanted to say was…”

“Zolf I have work to do. I am still capable…”  _ of that at least…  _ he opens his eyes, looks up and sees Zolf standing there, hurt naked on his face, and the sentence trails into nothing. He is  _ trying.  _ Trying to comfort Oscar. Trying to  _ help. _

And Oscar is being an ass about it, because apparently he’s forgotten everything he ever knew about managing a team. About managing  _ Zolf  _ in particular.

Prickly. Cantankerous. Unyielding.  _ Solid and reliable  _ Zolf.

“Look… I…”

‘No it’s fine,” Zolf says, stepping back. “I get it. You don’t have to talk about it, at least not with me I know I’m not good at… all that… stuff.”

“It’s not your strong suit, no,” Oscar says, then winces when he sees Zolf look away. “I don’t… I’m sorry. That was unfair of me.”

“It really wasn’t,” Zolf mutters, and Oscar feels a sharp lance of pain through his chest. He really is fucking  _ everything  _ up right now.

“No. Zolf. No I’m sorry. I realise I’m being difficult at the moment.”

“First time for everything I suppose,” Zolf says. 

Oscar presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, overwhelmed with an hysterical urge to laugh.  _ “Gods  _ Zolf.”

“I’ll just… I’ll just go. All right?”

The thought of Zolf leaving makes that lance of hurt in Oscar’s chest twist and dig in deeper. “Zolf please. I appreciate it. I do. But…”

“But I’m bad at it. I know, right? I’ve never been good at it and I probably never will be but if you’re hurtin’ you can’t just… bottle it up. I’ve been there and it does more harm than good.”

“I know,” Oscar says, dropping his hands and heaving a sigh. “I know. I do. I’m sorry.”

“You ain’t the one who needs to be sorry.”

“No. I am.”

Zolf has crossed his arms over his chest and is glaring at him now, and Oscar would like nothing more than to step forward, to cup his face in his hands and smooth the frown away with gentle sweeps of his thumbs. He takes one hesitant step, then stops.

That… 

That  _ isn’t  _ a good idea. 

“I am grateful that you… care enough about me to try to bring me out of this, Zolf,” he manages, stumbling over the words like his first year at Oxford, painfully aware that the edges of his vowels have gained an Irish twang, desperately hoping that Zolf doesn’t fully understand what that means.

“Well of course I do, Wilde,” Zolf says. “You’re part of the team.”

“I have to remember that, sometimes,” Oscar says. 

“Just… yeah. Don’t hurt yourself. Or punish yourself. It’s not your fault.”

_ It is,  _ he wants to say, but doesn’t.

Zolf looks at him for another long moment, then nods and turns, and Oscar lets out a sigh as soon as he is out of earshot.

It seems there is no limit to how much of an idiot he can be, after all.


End file.
